To Whom I Have Loved
by I Am Sweden
Summary: Nations reflect on the humans that left the biggest impact on them- for better or worse. Past loves, guardians that left too soon, and even the best friends they prayed would never leave them: eventually, all must go while the nation remains. The biggest question, however, is if their lessons would truly be remembered. Part I- England


_**With writing time and inspiration so sparse lately, I apologize for potential crappiness of the following fic.**_

**So… there are so many things that inspired this. Like, seriously. Also, I'm not sure if this has already been done somewhere or not, but here we go! Most of the relationships in this is purely my head-canon partly backed up by actual history, except for two, which are actually canon. Kinda. Also, I'm going to include some historical notes at the bottom if anyone cares to read. That way, I'm partially studying while I procrastinate! These chapters are very short, but there will be quite a few of them. Still, this will be a short fic.**

**To Whom I Have Loved**

**Part I- **_**Ave Mary A**_

_Where does everybody go when they go?_

Lately, England isn't so sure. He's so tiny, sitting on his rump, legs numb under his shaking frame and above the muddy earth. Everything about him is shaken as the noise of battle starts to dim and the shadows in his peripheral begin to encroach into what is right before him. The battle was horrible- but to be honest, to anyone else, it was a normal battle. It was a massacre, but those happened all of the time. England grabs at his arms, reminded of the perpetual ache about his body. He _feels_ them, even when he isn't there to see them die.

But to him, this time is different.

England had had plenty of friends over the years. He loved his people, and they loved him. He was just the right look to be the same age as the village kids, so they often played together while mothers worked in fields and fathers prepared for war, if they hadn't already left. England liked these little ones more than his brothers- they didn't smack him around. They didn't say he was worthless. They loved him, and he loved them.

He had loved the queen, too.

Boudicca had been a beautiful woman. She had been so full of life and vibrancy, as bright as her crimson hair and as jovial as her round face. She was the kind of queen that could relate to anyone. England enjoyed sitting at the dining table, seated between her two equally beautiful and boisterous daughters, listening to Boudicca's exaggerated stories of triumphs in war against Romans, other tribes, and malevolent spirits. England thought she was too strong to ever die- she was just as hardy as him- perhaps she would last forever, too!

Although thoughts and news of the Romans often gave the queen migraines and caused her to frown more often, she always acquiesced to England's requests for more stories. She taught him so much about the spirits in the forests and the creatures that could be vicious, but would most definitely love his company. Her tales would entrance the little one, filling his mind's eye with the luscious scenery of outside, now dotted with dancing little people whistling ever-so-innocently as they played a trick on another. Along with the various elves, giants, and spirits were the will-o'-wisps, playfully leading people to their destinies. Finally, the gods and goddesses themselves of the sacred groves, lakes, mountains, and sea entered her stories.

Nuada, the valiant one-handed leader of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and Lugh, who challenged him, held his interest more than the others. Of course, all deities were important! Where would they be without gentle Sulis, who provided healing, or Borvo and Grannos, who supplied them with crystalline water? But Nuada and Lugh… they reminded England of himself and his brothers. It was more than a little conceited to compare himself to someone as important as Lugh, but a childish nagging in his chest made him ignore the sacrilegious thoughts.

Boudicca told him how Lugh had desperately wanted to enter the great citadel of Tuatha Dé Danann. She didn't know why it had been his desire, but England could almost understand why. Seeing bigger, older, stronger people than he, happier in a place he could not enter? A place he did not belong, but wished to be part of? It made perfect sense.

The queen would shush him and continue her tale. Lugh told the gatekeeper of the citadel that he had just as many talents as everyone else inside. In fact, he could do anything any one of them could! Lugh was just a human, but his will wasn't something to be taken lightly. Through his ambition, he climbed to the top, matching the godly strength of Ogma, champion of Tuatha Dé Danann, and proving his worth to even Nuada. Finally, Nuada conceded Lugh was truly the most powerful, and crowned him the new leader. Lugh ruled over everything, now. It was all his, and he was finally respected.

_They go so fast, I don't think they know._

The numbness in his legs begins to creep up his spine, to his chest, and to his arms, dead and leaden at his sides. He does not feel like he will be something great. He feels so tiny and insignificant. England can't make himself move. He's sitting in the middle of a battlefield, but no urgency can force him to run away while his eyes are locked on the motionless body in front of him.

It is Boudicca, no longer immortal, as he had thought her to be.

England isn't quite sure what to do. When the queen's daughters had been stolen by Roman guards, England went to her in tears, begging her to fight back and save them and his people and everyone else in the land before Rome came to them too. For once, England had even feared for his older brothers dotted in the foggy isles. They were all so strong, but Rome was stronger. No matter how much they hated him, none of his brothers could make themselves want to kill him.

_We hate so fast._

Rome didn't care how much blood he spilled on the earth.

Spirits wail around him, replacing the screams of very much alive combatants swarming around with no sense of direction. England winces as they smack at him, screaming but forming no understandable words. They beg him to pick up where Boudicca left off, brandishing a blade before the Roman devils. They plead with him to fight back. But England cannot, doubling over with the weight of their tears and of his own. His body now quakes with grief instead of cold. He doesn't feel the cold anymore. He doesn't feel a thing, except this awful ache that bats at him and rips his heart in two.

_And we love too slow._

Boudicca had been the mother he had never known. Britannia died when Rome first came to the British Isles, a little more than a century ago. England didn't really know what happened to his mother, but his brothers and Rome and Boudicca all told him she was gone for good. England was supposed to take her place- was that why Scotland and Wales and Erie hated him so? Boudicca assured him they were simply frustrated over Rome's arrival. England tried his hardest to believe her, but he knew his brothers hated him. They would probably hate him forever, especially now that his latest rebellion had fell through when his leader was felled in battle.

England almost doesn't notice when the spirits fall into hushed, angry murmuring. He doesn't want to notice them or the shadow that has just enveloped him. England knows this man before he speaks. The man's voice ceases his trembling and replaces the sorrow coagulating within him with harsh and lively fury. England wants to turn around and rip this man to shreds, but he knows he is unable to do so. He is still too small and insignificant. What is he, a tiny province, compared to a great empire?

Rome lifts him up and out of the mud. He mutters under his breath in the horrible language England was forced to learn and tugs at him to follow. Although Rome appears merciful and forgiving now, England knows he will pay for this insurrection. The voices of the deceased are back, screaming at him to fight back and run away, but England cannot even clench his fist. He acknowledges his defeat.

He is finished. England knows his people will rebel again, because it is their nature to do so- if there is one thing England is sure of, it is that he and his people do not accept defeat easily. But for now, the young province will lay down his weapons in surrender. The woman that fueled his will was dead, and with her died his ambition.

"_Ut dixi seditione via ducat ad mortem_," Rome says at last, scowling down at his young charge. England instinctively tries to yank his wrist out of the empire's grip, but Rome refuses to let him go.

Perhaps, England allows himself to think, his will did not completely die with Boudicca. Perhaps her death was a way to amplify his defiance.

A small smile unfurls on his face, but Rome takes no notice. It is for the better he does not, for he cannot suppress this act of insubordination. In the lost language of his mother and his people and Boudicca, England gives his late queen both an apology and his gratitude.

_London, I think we have a problem._

It takes him over a millennium, but England rises to power as an empire with control over the seas. He owns more of the world than anyone else, much to France and Spain's irritation. England smirks at the euphemism; he knows France and Spain both would gladly see him dead. Nearly all of his fellow empires and countries hate him, but England does not care. He has endured toilsome years and fought countless wars to get him to this current position of power.

If only Boudicca could see him now. England is sure she would be proud. Scotland and Wales are beneath him now, and Rome has been gone for centuries, leaving behind only his legacy and pathetic grandsons. England is a world power, with a navy and economy envied by all others.

And, finally, England has his colonies. England treats them with the utmost kindness-

_These taxes are unjust!_

-and they love him dearly-

_I swear, England, if you don't fix things, _I_ will._

It takes one war to make England realized that Boudicca would not be proud of him.

America- the one colony England loved the most, for he reminded him of Boudicca so much- had left him in the mud and rain on his knees. England should have seen it coming, he thinks as the rain pours, matting his hair to his face and weighing down his thick, scarlet uniform. His meadow green eyes stare at America's strong-willed form walking away from him. The first soldier rushes up to congratulate him, and suddenly he is surrounded by ragged Americans and French. France himself stands off to the side, the victorious smirk on his face slightly dipping when he catches sight of England's face. When he weaves into the crowd, England loses sight of him, and he doesn't try to find him again.

England clenches at his sleeves, doubling over from the pain of this new loss. He hasn't felt this kind of pain since losing Boudicca, and now he is sure he will never feel anything ever again. England felt himself falling already, falling deeper and deeper down a hole he hadn't realized he had dug over the millennium. At the bottom he would surely join Rome and Byzantine and all other great empires that had made the same mistake as him.

He realizes he has underestimated the fire in the lowly. He realizes he had forgotten how it felt to be pushed around by Rome.

He realizes now, after all this time, that Boudicca did not want him to fight for winning's sake. She wanted him to be happy and free, regardless of whether he was a small country or a large one. When Boudicca died, she died fighting for _him_.

"What have I done?" he whispers to no one. America has long left without looking over his shoulder at the broken man in the mud. France has also left, most likely to board the first ship back to Europe to report what has happened to the others. England can only imagine the glee on Spain's face as he pictures England's shocked and defeated face. Scotland and Wales, behind England's back, would have a toast, despite technically being the losing side in this war. Everyone would rejoice at his defeat.

England also notices that he has not become Lugh, as he had wished, but had instead become Nuada, the great leader that had to bow to the peasant. Tears stream down his cheeks, but England doesn't notice because of the rain.

Then again, maybe it isn't rain that falls on him, but Boudicca's tears instead.

"To whom I have loved," England gasps through the sobs wracking his body, "I am sorry I misunderstood you. I am sorry I never learned from you. _I am so sorry._"

_**Historical notes:**_

**The Roman Empire first invaded the British Isles in 55 BC. Julius Caesar came during a tumultuous time, striking when one king, Commius, had been ousted by another, Cunobelin. Caesar's first two attempts were met with failure, but the Empire was already too far invested in acquiring the Isles to give up. Much like England expanding into North America for gold, Rome wanted control of Britain because they were rumored to have tons of silver and other valuable raw materials. Emperor Claudius invaded England again in 43 AD, this time successful. It took 30 years to conquer the rest of the Isles (save the highlands- the Scots were blue-painted **_**beasts**_**).**

**Queen Boudicca assumed power after her husband, the king of the Iceni (one of the tribes that lived in early England), died. In the king's will, he gave half of his kingdom to Roman Emperor Nero and the other half to Boudicca. Nero got angry and decided to take it all for himself, further angering the Britons that were already peeved over Roman markets screwing up their way of life- they were becoming so enveloped in being "Roman" that they were slowly forgetting their own culture. Hoping to keep England "pure" from further Roman influence, Boudicca led one of the most famous revolts during Roman occupation of England around 60 AD, after being flogged by the Romans and seeing her daughters raped. She died during one of the battles. After that, there weren't any notable English revolts for quite a while.**

**As for the American Revolution bit, I'm sure everyone knows what went down there. But just in case: France aided the Americans after they proved themselves at the Battle of Saratoga, and the war ended when the Americans and French forced General Lord Cornwallis to surrender at Yorktown in 1783. While America had the French, the Spanish, and several volunteers from Prussia, Poland, and other places, the only notable allies Britain had were the Hessians, whom they paid for their services. The American Revolution was a **_**huge**_** smack in the face to England.**


End file.
